


The Lost King

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Battle, Blood, Community: sons_of_gondor, Despair, Gen, Horror, Injury, Pain, Prophecy, Swordplay, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Still Minas Tirith endured after the days of Eärnur, son of Eärnil, and the last King of Gondor. He it was that rode alone to the gates of Minas Morgul to meet the challenge of the Morgul-lord; and he met him in single combat, but he was betrayed by the Nazgûl and taken alive into the city of torment, and no living man saw him ever again." - <i>The Silmarillion</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost King

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Triestine](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Triestine).



> Written for the [](http://sons-of-gondor.livejournal.com/profile)[**sons_of_gondor**](http://sons-of-gondor.livejournal.com/) 2011 Trick-or-Treat Fic/Art Exchange. Many thanks to [](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/profile)[**savageseraph**](http://savageseraph.livejournal.com/) for the invaluable beta, as always. [](http://triestine.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://triestine.livejournal.com/)**triestine** asked for a story about someone from the earliest days of Gondor, which got me thinking about the broken line of Kings. I hope this tale suits! Happy Halloween, madame!

...And so Eärnur, son of Eärnil came alone to the great gates of Minas Morgul. He took leave of his companions, good soldiers and loyal friends, and rode those last miles in a heavy silence broken only by the relentless pounding of his horse's hooves on the hard, dry ground. The laboured breaths of himself and his mount rasped in the bitter air. Each inhalation cut at his throat like a flurry of knives, and each exhale steamed, briefly obscuring his sight.

He had left his kingdom in the faithful hands of Mardil, charging him to protect every small life therein as if they were of his own loins, guarding them well against the possibility he would not return. All was in readiness, as it should be, and yet Eärnur's spirit quaked in the face of this challenge to his kingship.

The tall black figure had first appeared on the walkways above the gates in the days leading up to Eärnur's coronation, unmoving and unmoved, and Eärnur had allowed himself to be counselled against riding out to meet him. It was a bitter jewel set in his newly-worn crown, and even as he took his father's place as his own, as the banners snapped in the breeze and the children scattered petals in his path, his mind was on that long ago day in the Hills of Evendim. The remembered fear of his mount was thick in his nostrils, drowning out the sweet oils of anointing, the fresh, clear breeze. He heard not the cheers of the crowds, but rather the thundering of his heart, the scream of his stallion, and Glorfindel's fateful words. He was blind to the hope in his subjects' eyes, the shining silver of the Tower guards, seeing ever the tattered, flapping raiments of his enemy, the clawed gauntlets that curled around weaponry far older than Gondor itself. Under such a black cloud did Eärnur's reign begin, and under the same dark cloud he hid from the issued challenge.

Seven years had passed before the black figure was spotted once again.

All this -- the loss of good men on the plains of Fornost, the cowardice of newly-minted counsel, the renewed manifestation of evil -- weighed on him now, pulling his thoughts from the task at hand, making his movements slow and sluggish, as if each lost year was a physical blow. And yet the Morgul gates loomed above him, impossibly large and growing larger with each passing moment until he fully felt how small a speck of dust he was in their shadow.

The light was eerie here, green and sickly, as if caught in the centre of a flawed, clouded emerald. The hills flanking the Morgul Vale seemed to press in on him, as if they would squeeze the life out of him merely by existing. His stallion whickered and cantered sideways nervously, its eyes rolling in its head. If he did not keep it in check, he would be in danger of being thrown, and the idea of meeting his opponent -- especially one so powerful -- flat on his back would mean, without a doubt, his imminent demise.

Eärnur slipped off his steed, one hand loosely gripping the reins, the other gently stroking its neck. "Shh," he murmured, hoping his own misgivings did not poison his voice. He waited for the horse to settle, just a little, before he turned to the city before him. "I have come," he called, gaze sweeping across the empty landscape, "I have come as called, to answer the challenge extended again, that which I turned aside seven years ago, the very same one you turned from seventy-five years before. I come to you as one king to another, to meet fairly on the field of battle."

His voice rang out, clear and light, yet as the echoes died out into nothingness, he remained alone. Nothing, not the smallest hare nor the tiniest bee, stirred. Perhaps his scouts had seen falsities. Perhaps there had been no figure on the ramparts, perhaps this was naught but a fool's errand. Relief flooded through Eärnur's veins, and he resolved to make his way quickly from this accursed place. He gripped the pommel of his saddle, ready to swing himself up and away, when the stallion tensed beneath his hands. A second later it reared, screaming in terror, nearly yanking his arm from his socket. He stumbled backward, out of the way of its slashing hooves, barely avoiding a glancing blow to his forehead, and was horrified to watch it wheel and gallop back down the banks of the Morgulduin. Common sense told him he had no hope of catching up, not now, but he found himself taking a step or two in its direction, ready to break into a run.

From behind him, there was a hiss as dangerous as a snake, that of metal sliding free from metal. Automatically, his hand strayed to the pommel of his sword, and as he spun on his heel towards the threat, he slipped his sword free, bringing it up across his body, the learned response barely saving him from a deadly blow across his chest. His arm shuddered as the Morgul-king's blade clashed with his own, both weapons shrieking as they slid one against the other. Eärnur knew he was at a disadvantage, and allowed himself to retreat ever so slightly, breaking the hold even as he regained his equilibrium. Yet the Morgul-king advanced, quick and strong for someone so old, allowing Eärnur no quarter. He was upon Eärnur again in a moment, and it was all Eärnur could do to parry each new blow, hoping against hope for an opening.

The Morgul-king made no sound as they battled, and Eärnur felt himself descending into a fog, no moment existing beyond the present one, and the one after that, and the one after that. Dimly, he felt the sweat trickle down his back, the ache in his muscles. He was accustomed to being two steps or more ahead of his opponents, but as they fought on, it was as if the King of Minas Morgul was gifted with powers akin to the Wizards, as if he could read Eärnur's thoughts and divine his next move. The first prickings of real dread ran through Eärnur's body like quicksilver, temporarily dimming his sight. He faltered, his wrist bending painfully backward under the Morgul-king's onslaught, and gasped in pain as the King's blade sliced past his vambrace. As a whiteness threatened at the edges of his vision, he heard the crunching impact as the Morgul-king smashed his hilt into Eärnur's noseguard. Struggling against a loss of consciousness, Eärnur tilted forward, hitting out wildly. It was strange that he had not felt the impact, but he certainly felt the gush of warmth spilling forth now, and as he raised his arm in overhand sweep, he accidentally brushed against his face and screamed. The pain was like lancets stuck through his eyes, beating back impending collapse and bringing on a rage like that of a Woodwose.

He was stronger now, stronger than he had ever been, filled with a fury unlike any he had ever experienced. There was a roaring in his ears, blotting out even the sound of his own breath. His vision was clear, so clear it was as if he could see right through the Morgul-king, see past the dark, ragged cloak to the withered husk of a man underneath. He struck out then, righteousness speeding his hand, and was rewarded with the unmistakable thud of a blow meeting its mark, followed by a thick, slow slide of sword into flesh. His blade had found its home, buried beneath the dark cloth, and for one long moment, Eärnur revelled in this miracle. There might be hope for Gondor after all.

Yet there was no blood. No blood, no protesting wail, no sense at all that he had so much as nicked his opponent. He leaned forward more heavily, driving his sword deeper, shouting his defiance to the sky.

As if in slow motion, the Morgul-king's blade came back around, whistling as it swung. Stuck fast by sword to body, Eärnur could do nothing as the pommel cracked bone, connecting with his jaw.

Eärnur whimpered, numb fingers slipping from their grip, his form crumpling. Curiously, he felt the slip of steel between his ribs, a stab of pain blossoming into a blinding fire from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck. He faced the Morgul-king still, yet strange hands were gripping his arms, hauling him up, holding him so that he would not move. Not that he could, not anymore; exhaustion had felled him as surely as the battle, but even moreso, he was struck down by a profound chill that came with the curl of inhuman fingers.

A voice boomed out from somewhere within the tattered finery before him, shaking Eärnur to his very bones. "Know you not your prophecies? I cannot be killed. No man's sword will ever fell me." The Morgul-king gripped Eärnur's hilt and slid it free as easily as if from errant bedding, tossing it aside. While the blade was clear of blood, where it had touched the King the silver had rusted over as if left untended for an age or more.

Eärnur struggled half-heartedly, but the figures gripping him merely tightened their hold. He glanced upward and was struck still as he glimpsed the unmistakable forms of the Nazgûl, servants of the one who had challenged him. One turned its head towards Eärnur, and Eärnur screamed to see nothing beneath the hood. There was naught but blackness and death and despair, and as its shriek pierced the air, making Eärnur's blood freeze in his veins, he gave in to the wave of desperation that threatened to engulf him.

He felt himself dragged forward, past the huge, forbidding gates which crashed shut behind them. There were stairs, he was sure of that, but how many and how long it took for his captors to drag him to the top he was not certain. The world was a haze of nightmarish pain, of sharp angles and dusty stone floors, of neglect and wretchedness that ended in a mockery of his own throne room. He found himself unable to focus, his head swimming, his mind flirting with unconsciousness, but still he saw the twinned throne of Minas Ithil at the top of the stairs, the matching Steward's chair at the base, the columns that had been made to perfectly echo Minas Arnor's before both cities became mortal enemies.

If he were to die, perhaps it was fitting that it was here, in the broken remains of Minas Tirith's lost sister, in and amongst their defeats made manifest, in the shadow of the Shadow.

The Morgul-king's footsteps rang out against the cracked marble floor as he stepped back into Eärnur's rapidly diminishing line of vision. Eärnur opened his mouth to protest -- what, he did not know -- but not a sound came out. He was hoisted upward, almost back on his feet, and watched in horror as the King withdrew a small, stunted blade from within his robes. "Wight you will be," he heard whispered on inhuman lips.

As the blade thrust forward, as the world went dim, Eärnur, the last, lost King of Gondor, prayed for the grace of Nienna, his own tears watering his cheeks.


End file.
